


Babcia

by cathcer1984



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Lawyer Peter Hale, M/M, One Night Stands, Peter befriends Stiles' Babcia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22156006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcer1984/pseuds/cathcer1984
Summary: Somehow Peter becomes friends with a old lady who visits the courts for entertainment. Then her grandson arrives and Peter is just as smitten. Not that he'd admit it.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 37
Kudos: 1490





	Babcia

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I haven't seen in the Steter fandom. 
> 
> I know nothing of US court houses and legal system. So if it's wrong, ignore it. :D

Peter meets her by accident. He's just about to leave the courthouse when the doors open and a bitter gust of wind swoops inside. The scarf around her neck gets dragged back and her glove flies out her of her hand and lands by Peter's feet.

"I believe this is yours." Peter proffers the glove. 

"Peter Hale." The woman is old, she has a slight accent to her voice that Peter can't quite place. Her eyes are kind and whiskey coloured, surrounded by wrinkles and she's about half his height. "You did a good job today."

"I, thank you." Peter is a little stunned. 

"I come here, most days," she says as she pulls the glove on. "To see the cases, watch you fancy lawyer blokes argue. Better than daytime telly, let me tell you." 

She goes towards the doors and they open, Peter sucks in a breath of bitter cold air again. She looks back at him, "come along then, Peter." She holds out her handbag and he automatically takes it following behind her as she totters down the steps.

Curiously, Peter follows this old woman through the streets of New York late in the day when he could be heading home for a whiskey before dinner. She stops at an old apartment building and unlocks the door. Peter trails behind her, she lets him into her first floor apartment. 

"Come in, come in. Be a dear and put the kettle on." 

Peter hangs the bag on a hook near the door. "Right." He hesitates. 

"You can call me Babcia, Peter." 

"Is that your name?" 

She gives a smile that crinkles her whole face, Peter can see where all her wrinkles came from. "No. It's what you can call me. It's what my Mischief calls me, that's my grandson. John, my son, calls me mama."

"Babcia. That's Czech?"

"Wash your mouth out Peter Hale!" Babcia curses as she sits in a comfy looking chair. "Czech. Bah. It, like me, is Polish." 

"Ah, I apologise. Central European language knowledge isn't my strongest." Peter heads into the cluttered kitchen. It's a decent size but the surface is covered with knickknacks, mugs, different types of tea in assorted containers. There is also a load of washing up waiting to be done. 

He fills the tea kettle. "What tea would you like, Babcia?" 

"Hmmm. I think after your court session, you'll need an oolong, the green pig containter." Peter finds a small ceramic pig, like one out of Angry Birds. "And I shall have the same." 

"Alright." Peter hums as the kettle boils and he puts the tea into a teapot he finds on the side, tea strainer next to it. 

Babcia starts talking to herself in the next room, quiet mutterings of Polish. Peter fills the sink with hot water, and riffles through the cupboards to find washing up liquid. He squirts some in, and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows as bubbles form. 

While the tea steeps, after Peter has poured the boiling water into the pot he washes up. Peter wipes his hands on a towel showing California and the tourist places there. He pours the tea and takes the two mugs into the living room. 

"Ah, such a good boy." Babcia smiles again, eyes disappearing into her wrinkles. 

Peter never knew his grandmother, on either side of his family. He imagines this comfortable, coziness with Babcia would be like having one. Even though they are practically strangers. 

"My Mischief would like you." 

"Oh. And why do you say that?" 

"You are handsome and he has an interest in lawyers." 

Perking up, Peter smirks. "He wants to be a lawyer?" 

The hacking sound Babcia lets out startles Peter and it takes him a moment to realise she's laughing. He's a little affronted. 

"He is the son of a Sheriff. He wants to understand why people like you let criminals walk free." 

Ah, Peter thinks, he's one of _those_ types. "A criminal is found guilty to the tletter of the law by his or her or their peers. My job is simply to guide the jury into understanding the piece of law involved in a specific case."

"Don't front with me Peter Hale." Babcia picks up her mug of tea. "I saw you get that Jones boy off a murder charge." 

Peter smirks. Ian Jones had been found not-guilty of murdering his girlfriend because Peter had argued his case so successfully. "He's in jail again."

"The Jones boy?" 

Humming a confirmation, Peter says, "shoplifting." 

"Are you his lawyer again?" 

"Nope." Peter sips his tea. "If he's stupid enough to get caught, again, I'm not helping him. Besides, he can't afford me." 

Babcia cackles again, Peter allows himself a small smile. "Tell me about your family, Babcia."

**

Peter, unsurprisingly, doesn't have many friends. He's arrogant, intelligent and too quick witted for most people to keep up with. Conversation becomes a battlefield for him and it's a war he _has_ to win. And he does. 

So when Babcia has decided to be his friend or stand in grandmother Peter let's it happen. He would never say he's lonely. It's just that he's selective about the company he keeps. If he gets nothing out of it, usually sex or good food and wine, Peter doesn't tend to bother. 

It's why he surprises himself by seeking out Babcia's company. He'll acknowledge her in court, he stays late to walk her home and he's invited round to hers more than he's at his own extravagant apartment. Granted, his time is mostly split between his office and the courtrooms. 

For some selfish reason Peter tells no one about Babcia. Not his sister, nor any of her children (Peter only tends to talk to his youngest niece Cora, and by talk they exchange emails when she can find internet in whatever part of the world she is photographing). His nephew, Derek, is a police officer and like Babcia's Mischief he hated what Peter does and therefore hates Peter himself. Laura, his eldest niece is a homemaker and sees nothing in Peter's hedonistic lifestyle. 

He hoardes the information he gets about John and Mischief and Mieczysław, Babcia's long dead husband, and Claudia, her long dead daughter. 

Peter has pieces together that Mieczysław was a gentle Polish Jew who Babcia adored. When he died it broke her heart, and less than two years later shed buried her daughter. Mischief was only nine and John had never remarried. He kept in contact with his late wife's mother because both of them had no-one else to remember her with. 

They live in northern California where John is the sheriff of a small town. Peter never asked which one, only offering that he too is from a small Californian town. 

Babcia has many photos around, though they stop after Claudia's death. The latest one Peter has seen is of a solemn whiskey-eyed big staring at a garish birthday cake with a big '10' candle and a glassy-eyed man behind him. Mischief's first birthday without his mother. 

Peter doesn't need to be told that John buried himself in alcohol. Babcia alludes to it often enough, her disapproval is obvious. Babcia herself struggled being so far away but she refused to give up the home her and Mieczysław had made together. 

Instead of photos Babcia has ornaments from Mischief. She knows when each one was given. The ceramic green Angry Birds pig was when Mischief was fifteen, it had been her birthday present. 

The glass Fox was a Christmas present when Mischief was seventeen and had worked his first job, filing paperwork for John at the Station. Nepotism at its finest. 

**

Peter hasn't seen Babcia at court the last week. He was going to wait until Monday but he's worried. Not that he'd admit it. Peter Hale does not worry about an old woman he met three months ago. Except that he does. 

They haven't exchanged phone numbers. She has his card in case of an emergency but Babcia doesn't have a mobile and barely answers her landline when it rings. 

So, here he is on a Saturday morning at closer to nine than ten knocking on Babcia's door. Peter has a brief moment of wondering if he is overstepping but, she's old and they are friends. He's simply looking out for her. 

Only it isn't Babcia that answers the door. 

"Can I help you?" The young man is lean, as tall as Peter just as broad shouldered but slimmer in the waist and hips. 

"You must be Mischief." Peter would recognise those whiskey-coloured eyes anywhere. "I'm Peter." 

"Oh thank fuck you're real." Mischief grins and holds out a hand for Peter to shake. If they linger slightly too long there is not one around to see. "And call me Stiles." 

"Stiles." Peter smirks, looking him up and down with interest. "Of course I'm real." 

With a loud, bright laugh Stiles steps to the side and Peter, after toeing off his shoes by the door, brushes passed him as he enters the living room. Babcia is sitting in her chair looking happier than ever, judging by how deep her wrinkles are. 

"Dad thought Babcia was losing it. Forced me to take time off and come check you out. It. This. The situation. Come and see what's going on. Oh my god." Stiles has flushed a pretty pink and Peter graciously pretends to ignore him while he collects himself. 

Crouching down next to Babcia, Peter kisses her cheek. "You missed the outcome of the Merry case."

"You got him away, didn't you?" 

Peter nods. "Guilty. First degree murder."

"Twenty-five years with parole after ten?"

Giving her his best 'bitch, please' face Peter tuts. "I'm disappointed in you. This is why you can't miss my summation, Babcia. He got life, no chance of parole."

She cackles her hacking laugh and para Peter's hand. "You! Ah. I'm sorry I missed it but my little Mischief was here. He wouldnt let me go to the court because watching trials is not entertainment Babcia, he says to me-" Peter looks over at where Stiles is gaping at them. "-it is real people's lives you can't go gawking. Hah! I'll be back when he's gone, Peter don't you worry." 

"Oh my god." Stiles mutters and heads into the kitchen, Peter follows his ass with his eyes. 

"I'll make some tea." Peter says, taking his leather jacket off and hanging it by the door. It's a weekend so he isn't in a suit, he's wearing his favourite jacket, a v-neck sweater and expensive jeans. 

Babcia hums and sings old Polish songs as Peter joins Stiles in the kitchen. Stiles is washing up and Peter waits, hip against the counter arms over his chest. "How long are you in New York for?" 

"A week. I go back Sunday night." 

"Such a short visit." 

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. "I had to make sure she was sane. You see she made up this ridiculously hot lawyer friend that no-one had met before."

Peter chuckles. "I highly doubt Babcia described me as 'ridiculously hot'."

There's that blush again. Peter moves closer to Stiles, just so he can fill the kettle. "Tea?" 

"Sure." Stiles shrugs and it makes his shoulder brush deliberately against Peter's chest. "You come around often on the weekend?"

"Not usually." Peter busies himself making the tea. Earl Grey for this hour of the morning he thinks. "I hadn't seen Babcia all week."

"You were worried." Stiles teases.

"I was concerned." Peter amends but Stiles smirks knowingly at him. "Shut up. At least she has someone in the city looking out for her when you're all the way in California."

"Fair point. Thanks, though." Stiles lowers his voice. "She's been really lonely this last year. I put in for a transfer to a New York precinct but it hasn't come through yet. They don't really want small town deputies."

"If you're serious, I could make some calls for you." Peter doesn't even know why he's offering, except he's a bit of a sucker for those whiskey brown eyes whether they're in an old wrinkled face or a young, handsome one. 

Stiles studies him thoughtfully. "You'd do that for Babcia." 

"I'd do it for you." Peter gives a half smile before pouring the tea into three cups. "I've heard so much about you and your dad."

"Yeah, same. I feel like I've known you for ages and yet I'm just seeing you now for the first time." Stiles places a hand on Peter's, fingers giving a little squeeze. "I won't turn down what you're offering." 

"Good to know." 

** 

After they have finished their tea, the conversation flows but Peter has to force himself to focus more on Babcia than Stiles. She has this smug look on her face, and when Stiles takes the mugs into the kitchen she winks at Peter. "I told you my Mischief would like you." 

"You also said he has an interest in lawyers." 

She cackles, eyes disappearing in her wrinkles. "He's interested in this lawyer," Babcia pokes him in the shoulder with a bony finger. "Stay the day. Flirt with him, give an old woman some entertainment."

Peter quirks an eyebrow. "I am not your entertainment Babcia." 

"Bah. Course you are." 

"Why do you think she goes to the courts so often?" Stiles says from the kitchen doorway. He's leaning his shoulder against it, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. His torso looks long and his legs endless. Peter wants to know how far they'd wrap around him and what the strength in those thighs feels like. His gaze lingers over Stiles' form before Peter lifts it to see Stiles' lips curved upwards. Peter is unashamed at being caught ogling Stiles, the longer he looks the darker Stiles' cheeks become until the ducks his head shyly, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. 

Coughing to break the tension, Peter wipes his palms on his thighs a couple of times before pushing himself to stand. "I should let you get back to your day." 

"Stay." Babcia grasps his hand. "Two of my favourite men, you should know each other. And Mischief can tell his father that you're not a figment of my imagination." 

"I think he's a figment of mine," Stiles mutters and Peter hides a smile, he doesn't think he was meant to hear that. 

"If you're sure." 

Babcia beams, looking at Stiles who nods. "Yes. Stay. We're going to make pierogi." 

Peter squeezes Babcia's hand and uses the other to indicate as he says "lead the way, show me what to do." 

**

Making pierogi is serious business in the Gajos/Stilinski household, Peter finds out. 

Babcia sits on a stool at the kitchen counter, Stiles next to her and Peter beside him. They each have their own bowl and ingredients. Babcia doesn't weight anything out, she seems to know instinctively. Peter, hover; copies Stiles and his measurements. He adds two cups of flour and half a teaspoon of salt to the bowl, swirling his finger like Stiles does. 

Stiles cracks an egg into a jug and pours it in. Babcia cracks the egg straight into her flour. Peter manages that, and then has to pick out the tiny bit of shell that somehow slid in. Stiles snorts next to him and Peter feels his shoulders shaking. He bumps into Stiles, who leaves them pressed together, while they combine the egg into flour. Babcia is singing a Polish song as she works. 

She seems to be about two steps ahead of where Stiles and Peter are. 

They work in half a cup of sour cream and a quarter cup of soft butter. Babcia puts her bowl in the fridge and moves to sit in her chair in the living room.

Stiles doesn't move across even thought there is more counter space now, he stays pressed against Peter. 

Peter watches, fascinated, at the way Stiles' long fingers are kneading the dough. It's sticky and Peter is clumsy. He's focusing on the wrong bowl, paying more attention to Stiles' hands than his own. 

"Here," Stiles says. He puts his hands into Peter's bowl, his fingers working and sliding against Peter's as they knead the dough together. Peter can feel Stiles' breath puffing against his cheek, he wants to hold his breath and keep this moment, afraid to break it. He does though. Peter looks up at Stiles, they are so close. Peter can see a small mole on the underside of Stiles' eye, he could count his eyelashes, he could _kiss_ him. Their eyes meet at Stiles drags his dough-sticky fingers up Peter's, it's sensual and Peter can't help but tilt his head and lean forward. 

Stiles' eyes drop to half open and he hooks a finger around one of Peter's tugging. Peter takes that as a sign to go ahead and kiss him. Their lips meet softly, hardly brushing when Babcia lets out a loud cough in the next room. Peter pulls back from Stiles with a rueful smile. "Another time?" 

"Yeah." Stiles takes his hands away to work on kneading his own dough. Peter concentrates on his bowl, mind wandering to thoughts of the man next to him. 

** 

Later, the day is spent in and out of the kitchen making the peirogi and Peter shows them his great-great-grandmother's Cawl recipe. It's later now, Babcia has gone to bed to her bedroom and Peter drying the dishes. Stiles gives him a heated look. "You don't have to do that." 

"I don't mind." 

"Ah, I was too subtle." Stiles takes the tea towel out of Peter's hands and tosses it onto the side. "What I meant was stop doing that and let me take you to bed." 

Peter slides his hands into the back pockets of Stiles' jeans, he grips two big handfuls of Stiles' ass as he aligns their hips. "Well, in that case." Peter presses his lips to Stiles' jaw enjoying the way Stiles gasps and clutches at his back. "Lead the way." 

Before they leave the kitchen Stiles kisses Peter, confident and deep. It leaves Peter breathless and wanting more. They stumble to the spare room where Stiles is staying. "Shhh," Peter hisses as Stiles sucks a kiss on his throat making Peter bump into the wall. 

"Don't worry. She's taken her hearing aids out, Babcia's deaf as a doorknob without them." Stiles smirks as he strips his top off, exposing pale skin dotted with dark moles and two perk, pink nipples that Peter immediately puts his mouth on one. "Fuck." Stiles throws his head back and his hands come up to grip Peter's hair. "Bed. Bed. Now. Fucking hell, Peter." 

They break apart and both pull their clothes off. Stiles shuts his door and Peter turns on the bedside light bathing the room in a soft yellow glow. 

Stiles is standing next to the bed. He's thin but strong, Peter looks his fill and lets Stiles study him in turn. By some unspoken agreement they reach for each other, falling onto the bed in a tumble of limbs and Peter curses as he feels Stiles' prick brush against his, the sticky head leaving a trail across his hip. They kiss hot and hungry and desperate as they try to find a comfortable position for them both on the bed. They end up with Peter on top, thighs spread wide over Stiles' hips.

"Have you got anything?" 

"What?" Stiles stops, eyes going wide. "Fuck no. I didn't expect to get laid at my grandmothers." 

Peter sucks at the hollow of his throat. "That's okay," Peter takes both of their cocks in his hand. "We can do this." 

Stiles' hips buck upwards. "Yeah we can," he gasps.

It's a strange sensation for Peter, his cock held tightly against Stiles' in the palm of his hand. He's having sex without condoms or lube because he's attracted to this beautiful man beneath him. There's been no game, no weeks long flirting, he hasn't been stalking his prey for the end goal of sex for sex's sake. This, right now, with Stiles is spontaneous attraction. Peter looks down at him on the ugly floral pillowcase in a strange yellow glow, Stiles has his eyes closed and mouth open. His cheeks are flushed, and the pink goes down his neck and gets a deeper red on his chest. 

Peter presses tongue to the smattering of chest hair in the middle of Stiles' chest, sucking marks across until he reaches a nipple. He's holding himself up with one arm, hand tangled in Stiles' hair and his other is around their cocks, thumbing just under the head of Stiles'. He uses his teeth and tongue and lips to pulls whines, groans and moans from Stiles' mouth. 

"You're too fucking good at this." 

"Are you complaining?" Peter asks, raising his head to stare incredulously down at Stiles. 

"Yes." Stiles purses his lips and raises his eyebrows. "I am lodging a complaint with management."

With a soft snort, Peter leans down so their lips brush as they speak. "Oh? Management is understanding but this isn't my full skill set. Please list your compalints, management is listening." He rocks his hips, their dicks sliding together deliciously in his light grip. 

"How are you- _oh_ \- talking in full, fuck, full sentences." Stiles moans. "God! You're going to make me come." 

"Uh huh. And that's a bad thing?" 

"Fucking yes. You're going to ruin me for sex with anyone else." Stiles' hands are stroking up at down Peter's back, fingers dipping teasingly between Peter's ass cheeks. It makes him falter in his rhythm. Stiles laughs breathlessly against his mouth. 

Peter kisses him to shut him up. 

He tightens his grip and thumbs over the slit of his cock and then Stiles'. He uses his thumb to guide the head of his cock to press against the underside of Stiles', it's clumsy and he breaks away from the kiss to look down and focus. Stiles' giggle turns into a moan. Then his body tenses as he comes, fingers gripping hard into Peter's ass. Peter loses track then as his orgasm washes over him. 

When he focuses again he's slumped on top of Stiles, panting into his shoulder. Gentle fingers are tracing patterns up and down Peter's back, it almost tickles. Stiles is pressing his lips to Peter's cheek over and over in delicate butterfly kisses.

Peter is damp with a thin layer of sweat, his groin and hand sticky with both his and Stiles' still warm come. "We should clean up." Peter yawns. He feels Stiles smile against his temple. 

"Hang on," Stiles shifts Peter off him with prodding and poling and shuffling out from under him until he can open the bedside table drawer. He pulls out a packet of wet wipes and a box of tissues. Stiles grins when he sees the expression on Peter's face. "I stayed here a week one summer when I was fifteen. She always leaves tissues and wet wipes."

"How thoughtful," Peter says dryly as he rolls into his back taking a wipe to clean his hand. Peter jumps when Stiles swipes harshly over his belly. He murmurs an apology and Peter lies back and watches sleepily as Stiles cleans him. 

The wipes get bunched into a ball and tossed onto the floor over Stiles' shoulder. Peter waits until he has switched out the light to draw him close. He noses at Stiles' cheek until he can slot their mouths together in lazy kisses. 

"Goodnight Peter." 

"Sleep well, Stiles." Peter gives him one last kiss then turns so he's on his stomach, arm slung over Stiles' waist and they settle in to sleep 

**

It's cold when Peter wakes up. 

Stiles is a blanket hog. He looks like a burrito, head poking out of a roll of blankets. Peter feels like he should be more annoyed than find. He hardly knows this man, but the immediate attraction to him physically, intellectually and emotionally puts him high above anyone else Peter has slept with or been in a relationship with. Peter gets nothing from this other than the pleasure of Stiles' company. 

He gets up, smoothing a hand through Stiles' hair and puts his clothes on. Peter feels wrong being here at this hour. It's close to seven thirty and Peter is cold from his feet to his fingertips. 

After making a quick pitstop in the bathroom Peter sneaks through the living room and sees his expensive Italian loafers sitting neatly next to Stiles' askew converse. It makes him smile. He slides his shoes on and nearly jumps out his skin.

"Morning." 

Peter spins to see Babcia smirking at him from the kitchen doorway. "Morning Babcia. Did you sleep well?" 

She raises her eyebrows. "Are you leaving him like a cheap one night stand?" 

"No." Peter replies honestly. "He's a blanket thief and my feet are cold. I was going to out the kettle on, make him a cup of tea."

Babcia's smirk softens into a giddy smile that takes over her whole face. "Don't bother. He won't be up for another hour. You can make me one instead. White tea for the morning."

"Of course," Peter greets her in the kitchen doorway with a kiss on the cheek. She pats his face and tugs her blue, daisy covered dressing gown tighter across her chest as she moves to her favourite chair. 

The white tea isn't Peters favourite but he makes himself a cup as well. Just as he's pouring the water into the pot, he hears the bedroom door open. Peter sets about adding enough tea leaves for one more and getting a cup out. He wants to be quick and fumbles spilling tea leaves that he has to clear up. It gives Peter plenty of time to hear Stiles' disappointment. 

"Babcia. Have you seen- I mean... Oh." His face is sad as he looks at the front door. 

"Stiles." Babcia calls, when he looks at her she points to the kitchen where Peter is hurrying out, without looking like he's hurrying of course. "He's making tea." 

"Peter," Stiles smiles beautifully. 

"Good morning," Peter steps forward, closer and closer until he can pull Stiles into his arms. Stiles comes willingly and presses a kiss to the edge of Peter's mouth. 

"Hi. You sleep okay?" 

"I would have slept better if I were warmer. You stole the covers." Peter noses at Stiles' jaw, showing he's not serious in his teasing. 

"Ah. Right. Sorry."

"No you're not." Peter says, at the same time that Babcia does. 

Stiles pushes away and rolls his eyes at them both. "I'm not now." 

**

Peter goes home after breakfast. He promises to come back and take Stiles to the airport at two. Peter makes some calls in the meantime coming through on his earlier offer to Stiles. If Stiles wants to accept it of course. 

Two in the afternoon comes around soon enough and Peter puts Stiles' bag in the back while he hugs his grandmother tightly.

Babcia hugs him hard and Stiles is practically bent in two. "Go on now" she rasps. "You'll miss your flight Mischief. Ring when you land." 

"I will Babcia. I love you." Stiles holds her tight again. She almost pushes him away. He hurries to the car not looking back, face damp. Peter sees Babcia wiping her eyes with a handerchief, face crumpled in on itself. 

"Peter." Stiles snaps as he shuts the car door. Peter gets in after lifting a hand. 

"She'll be alright." Peter offers quietly. 

"I know." Stiles reaches over to put a hand on Peter's knee. "She has you, now."

"So do you." Peter says it before he fully thinks it through. "If you want." 

"I do but I live in Beacon Hills, and you live in New York City."

"You're from Beacon Hills?" Peter is astounded. 

Stiles gives him a funny look. "Yeah. Why? Surely Babcia mentioned it."

Shaking his head Peter answers, "no. She only said small northern Californian town. I'm from Beacon Hills. My nephew is a deputy there, Derek Hale."

"Oh my god!" Stiles starts to laugh. "You're Uncle Peter." 

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable someone I had sex with last night calling me 'uncle'."

"Oh hush. Derek calls you Uncle Re-Peter. Cause you used to lawyer for repeat offenders before you got all big and fancy in New York."

"There are only repeat offenders in Beacon Hills. Lenny still in the drunk tank every Tuesday?" Peter asks pointedly and when Stiles grumbles he knows he's right. "But I'll have to use that when I next talk to Der-bear. He hates my job." Peter side eyes Stiles. "I was told you did as well."

"You're more than you're job and so am I." Stiles shrugs and the rest of the journey is spent in comfortable silence. 

Peter pulls I to the carpark a while later. They both get out and stop by the trunk. Stiles opens it and takes out his bag. "Don't come in, okay? I'm not so good with goodbyes." 

"Alright." Peter feels awkward, he wants to ask Stiles to stay and he wants to go with him and he wants to hold on and never let go. "Give me your number, in case I need to contact you." 

"About Babcia?" Stiles asks as he programmes his number into the phone Peter just handed him.

"About missing you." 

Stiles looks up at him wide eyed. "Oh fuck it." He goes before sliding Peter's phone into his pocket and pressing their mouths together in a hungry kiss. Peter kisses back for all he's worth. He clings to Stiles with his arms around, pleased to note Stiles holds on just as tightly. "Text me so I'll have your number when I land."

"Alright. Call me when you do." 

"I promised to call Babcia." 

Peter kisses Stiles' cheek. "I'll go and see her. Make sure she's okay. Give her some company so it doesn't seem so empty and quiet."

"I love how much you love her." 

"I never had a grandmother. Babcia is the closet I have. At forty years old I'm finally getting a grandmother." 

Stiles smiles, "I don't mind sharing her. I've had her to myself for twenty-two years." 

"Christ, are you really that young?" 

"Yes." Stiles frowns. "Is it a problem?"

Peter shakes his head. "Not unless you're going to trade me in for a newer, younger model."

"Nah. I like my men experienced." Stiles responds with a wink.

Narrowing his eyes, Peter says "that sounds suspiciously like a fancy term for old."

Stiles laughs. "It is." He kisses Peter again before he can respond. Then he whispers "see you later, Peter" and he's hurrying off into the airport. Peter watches him walk away. 

He gets back in his car, and sends a text. **Made those calls. An offer of a transfer for to an NYPD will be made sometime in the next month. ~ Peter x** Starting the engine Peter makes his way back to Babcia's house, his phone chimes with an incoming text. Peter smiles knowing it's from Stiles. 

He'll check when he gets to Babcia's.

**_Oh my god you ridiculous man. I'm booking a date now for sometime in the next month. I want to see your full skill set. ;-) <3 _ **

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on tumblr](https://cathcer1984.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I have never made pierogi, so this is [the recipe](https://www.kingarthurflour.com/recipes/homemade-pierogi-recipe) I used to understand how it's made.
> 
> Cawl is a traditional Welsh lamb stew. Hale is a surname that has Welsh origins.


End file.
